


Taken By the Collar II

by Thimblerig



Series: The Lion and the Serpent [23]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis!whump, Blood and Gore, Captivity, Friendship Across Enemy Lines, Gen, Happy Ending, Military, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6458443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Aramis wears several coats, not all at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This is set between "Hard Roads" and "The Going Down of the Sun". I'm a bit up in the air about whether it's before or after Aramis met Porthos. Pick where you like. 
> 
> CW: some squick at the end of the first chapter; you can skip the last paragraph and get the gist from the second chapter. Chapter 2 includes rough handling and death threats towards a prisoner.

He muttered to himself as he walked through the military camp, hands telling over the round wooden beads of a rosary. Pleasant as the morning was, he was glad of the wide flat brim of his clerical hat, for his head ached and the low bright light pierced his eyes. Ah, what excesses must he have been about the night before, for such a morning after? It quite brought shame to his cassock. Aramis sighed at the indignity of the world and continued his serene walk among the bivouacs and tents of Spain and her allies.  _ Dragoons, heavy, three campfires,  _ click,  _ dragoons, light, five campfires,  _ click,  _ a row of cannon, absent the horses to pull them, soot-stained engineers working at the touch-holes, _ click. An hussar perched on a camp stool and braided one of his hanging forelocks about a bit of dowel while his batman lathered soap and readied a bowl of steaming water; he nodded politely, eyes bright and fierce as a hawk, and Aramis returned the salutation. Click. Across a picket of horses  _ (a dozen, underfed and clearly overworked _ , click) a group of non-paroled prisoners, stripped of the better part of their gear, waited sullenly under guard for their meagre ration of bread. Aramis raised his hat in sympathy; one of them, clearly their leader for all his unkempt hair and filthy shirt, glared at him ferociously before turning away. Aramis shrugged and moved on. Captivity could be wearing on the disposition: he didn't take it personally. Click. 

_ Scottish mercenaries, half-and-half horn bows and muskets, four campfires, _ click. One of them, resplendent in fitted tartan trews and a silver-buttoned jacket met his eyes. Aramis smiled politely. The Scotsman drew air into a barrel chest and bellowed in the magnificent roar of a battlefield leader:  _ Spy! Thief! Catch the gomerel! _ Aramis couldn't say he knew what a gomerel was, but he didn't care to chance it. He bolted.

Up the slope and through another picket line - he cut the horses’ hobbles and slapped their rears for a little distraction - around a line of tents… he doffed the cassock and wide-brimmed hat, revealing a Spanish infantry jacket and, when the baying mob flooded into sight he called, in fluent Spanish, “Thataway - the son of a mother doubled back, I'll show you!” and led the chase for a few minutes. It was invigorating. When the enthusiastic soldiers had become nicely chaotic, encouraged by breathless comments regarding stolen rations of grog, an impending visit by the Inquisitor-General, and the English! The English are coming! he allowed himself to drop behind.

He picked at the ties of a large tent, its white canvas stained with mud, and crawled inside. He crouched in the dim light, swallowing desperately as the stench of old blood hit him, and the buzz of flies. An orderly trudged by, head hanging, wheeling an overloaded barrow over the rough wooden boards laid down as a floor.  Aramis picked up a severed foot, fallen from the barrow, and followed. Across the tent, a man strapped to a trestle screamed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An hussar… braided one of his hanging forelocks about a bit of dowel - I've quite lost my reference links, sorry, but hussars are a kind of light cavalry, noted for skirmishing and setting about with sabres. I believe there were a few working for the Spanish at this time, but couldn't find a pictorial reference, so the hair braided in front of the ears might be anachronistic. 
> 
> Dragoons rode horses while carrying firearms.
> 
> I could swear I once saw a picture of Scottish mercenaries from 1630 wearing a variety of loosely gathered belted plaids and fitted, bias-cut trews, or short hose, but I can't find it anywhere. 
> 
> If someone who is more expert than I feels I've made any factual errors, please let me know and I'll do what I can.
> 
> ++
> 
> Screw the damn research on this. Screw it. I actually spent an hour trying to place what Aramis' dialect of Spanish would sound like to native Spanish speakers. And then didn't use it because it didn't fit story-wise after all. For the record, and taking a couple of leaps on account of having no ear for the language, I'm going with an accent similar to one raised in Seville. Ask me why. Go on, I dare you.


	2. Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis has confusing feelings.

They hauled him into the command tent bloody-handed, struggling, and protesting in rapid Spanish. 

"Who do you work for?"  

"I don't recall," he said very sweetly, "perhaps it shall come to me later." That earned him a cuff on the head. He moved with the blow, shouldering into the soldier gripping his bicep and almost took him off his feet. Swinging around the momentum sent him into the edge of a table, scattering charts and markers. The guard on his right hauled him back and someone behind him kicked him in the backs of his legs, sending him to his knees with a thud. “Ow,” he said. 

“What do you know?!”

“I know my catechism,” Aramis said brightly. “I believe in the One God. Among all the truths which the faithful must believe, this is the first, that there is one God. We  must see that God means the ruler and provider of all things. He, therefore, believes in God who -”

A rough hand yanked at his hair. "I bite," he warned, and put action to word with a snap of his teeth. There was blood in his hair and more on his lips but his head was free again. “... who believes that everything in this world is governed and provided for by Him. He who would believe that all things come into being by chance does not believe that there is a God. No one is so foolish…” He ignored both the chill of a pistol barrel against his temple, and the oily click of its cocking. “... For God in His just and wise Providence knows what is good and necessary for men; and hence He  afflicts some who are good and allows certain wicked men to prosper. But he is foolish indeed who believes this is due to chance, because he does not know the causes and method -”

The canvas stirred, and a slight man in civilian dress came in, followed by a page with an armful of black fabric. He lifted his hand and Aramis’ captors fell silent. “Out,” he said. Hands started to pull Aramis away but the man in civilian dress shook his head slightly. “Not him. Just you.” Aramis stayed on his knees as his captors shuffled out and watched the other with interest. He was a fair Spaniard, hair darkened to old gold in the filtered light and his eyes would be blue in the sun. “One of my hired soldiers tells me you are named Bazin, and that you stole some rather important supplies from him, once upon a time.”

“What an interesting story,” said Aramis, a faint smile curling his lips.

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“ _ Can _ I elaborate is a perhaps more stringent question,” he replied. “For if I were that Bazin who stole such-and-such and so-and-so, it would be expected that I could expound at length on such matters. But if I were not…” he shrugged. “You see the difficulty.”  

“You argue as one trained by Jesuits.” Aramis smiled slightly. 

“My informant did not know and so I ask again: who do you work for?”

Aramis let his eyes flick over the man, his modest height, the golden sigil of a signet ring on his finger, even the po-faced page who hovered behind him. “You, I think, are the Duke de Medina, who was late to the battle of Toulouse.”

“I own to it,” said de Medina quietly. “Not the most glorious hour of a soldier’s career.” There was a scatter of blood on his cheek. 

“Well,” said Aramis with sympathy, “Spanish military maps are notoriously misleading.”  

“If you give me your parole,” said de Medina, “I shall clean the blood off your hands.”

Aramis offered up his bound wrists, the fingers still sticky with red-brown blood. “Under this canvas, O Prince, I am yours.”

"It was clever of you to hide in the medical tents," de Medina said, dipping a cloth into a bowl held by his page and wiping down Aramis’ fingers.  "If you had gone out when the orderlies changed shift, you might have made it."  

"I was rather caught up in the moment," Aramis replied. He looked down. “There was a skill in my hands,” he added softly, “so I used it." He met de Medina’s eyes. “Your man was very brave under the knife, I thought. Commendable.”  

"They said the ball could not be drawn and Captain Peralta would lose his leg."

"He still might," said Aramis. "It's never over until the wound has healed dry. I would not personally have sited my latrines so near the medical tents," he added, eyes thoughtful, “or the burial pits anywhere near so close to the cooking, for that matter, however much quicklime you spoon in.”

"Ah, you know your battle camps," said de Medina, producing a little knife and cutting the rough cords biting into Aramis’ wrists.  He turned one hand over and mopped the palm. "And your battle fields," he added, looking at the calluses on his fingers and palm, stigmata of sword and gun.

"What else can you tell?" asked Aramis with interest, keeping his hands lifted. 

De Medina cocked an ironic eyebrow but went on, "Neat fingernails, well-tended skin: an officer."

"Maybe I'm just vain," Aramis smiled.

"An officer. Who holds your fealty?"

“Perhaps I eat at many troughs.”

“Many troughs or no, if you are that Bazin that robbed last month’s payroll and raided our supply ships in Genoa then Spymaster Vargas would very much like to meet with you.”

Aramis’ eyes were wide and clear. “If I were that Bazin, faced with an introduction to such a fearsome person, you could hardly expect me to own to it.”  

There were fine white scars on Aramis’ wrists, at the very base of the thumb and the little finger, where a man, sufficiently motivated, might cut himself trying to drag his hands out of iron spancels. No galling, though, that might come from long wear in confinement. De Medina’s eyes flicked up to Aramis’ neck, where criminals were often marked. Aramis smiled, flickeringly. “No brands,” he said. 

De Medina touched lightly a scrap of ribbon knotted about Aramis’ wrist, faded blue and dabbled with red, and then dipped the cloth again in the bowl. “I thank you for the life of my friend, and I respect your gallantry,” he said, dabbing at the other’s face, “but I cannot let you go free.”

Aramis’ breath caught and his eyes flickered. “I understand your reasoning,” he said at last, courteously. He smiled a little as de Medina turned his back to return the cloth to the little page, and levered himself awkwardly to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his knees.  

“Before I go, may I ask you something?”

“Name it,” the other said, looking down at the table of scattered maps.

Aramis shrugged to himself. “What does San Sebastian mean to you?”

De Medina looked up, one eyebrow raised. “On the Bay of Biscay? Very little.”

“Ah well, thank you for your time.” 

“I do not like Spymaster Vargas.”

“It is what it is,” said the other lightly.    

The Duke nodded. He walked to the entrance and called back the soldiers. “Put him with the other prisoners of war,” he told them, “he can bargain a ransom with the rest of them.”  

The prisoner hovered on the threshold, between shade and glaring sunlight. “Aramis,” he said then. “Call me Aramis.”

De Medina took a narrow-stemmed pipe from the page and filled it with shreds of fragrant tobacco. For a time he sat on a camp stool in the sun, thinking. He was not at all surprised, half an hour later, when the hue and cry rose up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A catechism is a method of verbal teaching, often in the form of memorising question and answer. Back in the day it was a popular form of religious education. Aramis quotes from the Catechism of Thomas Aquinas, one of the longer ones, which included a bit of commentary and philosophising and was apparently popular with priests.
> 
> I had a longer plot arc sketched for De Medina but a) length, b) the difficulty of selling an original character, and c) conflict with other arcs led me to cut it. Still and all, I enjoyed their conversation so I kept most of it. Sorry if it feels like I'm pulling your chain.


End file.
